Accursed
by Draconian Elflord
Summary: On a cloudy morning, but one of the IY troupe is awake. Miroku sees reflections and thinks of his past. Sango comes to join him. A MS romance fic. Looks deeper into Miroku's character. RR, but don't be cruel.


Elflord: *eyes spinning* Whew, what a trip! Wait a minute? *looks around as if searching for something* Where are they anyway? Miroku and Sango: *appear out of the woods behind her* Miroku: *eyes bug out, drop of spittle rolls from mouth* *runs up super-fast and clutches Elflord* Well, hello! Sango: *evil eye glare* *raises boomerang and begins in attack voice* OSUWA- Miroku *huge sweatddrop* I. . . I was just kidding! We're old college chums! *lying anime face* *pulls college sweater out of nowhere and puts it on a thunderstruck Elflord* *puts pennywhistle in Elflord's mouth* LONG LIVE SENGOKU U! LONG LIVE SENGOKU U! *takes pennywhistle and sweater* See? Tell her, Elfy. . . *gives Elflord meaningful look* Elflord: *sweatdrop* Umm . . . say what? Miroku: *slaps forehead* Sango: *glare and big flourish* . . . RI! *boomerang hits Miroku* OSUWARI! OSUWARI! *continues* Miroku and Sango: *race away, Sango continuing to attack, Miroku running for dear life, shouting lame apologies*  
  
Elflord: Oh, man, someone's gonna be in pain tomorrow, and somehow I don't think it's gonna be Sango. Guess I have to do the disclaimer myself. Oh well. *takes deep breath* *goes mi-mi-mi-mi* People I don't own Inuyasha or any of the other characters. I don't own anything concerning Inuyasha. Those are all legal copyrights of whatever geniuses that own them.  
  
A/N: In this, as in all of my fics, I do not take plot to be orthodox. I keep the parts of the plot that I feel support the fic, but I am also not afraid to rewrite some parts according to my own interpretation to better suit the fic. Please don't flame for plot reasons. And now, our feature!  
  
Accursed  
  
Still like water of pond. Yes, the waters were still now. Everything was still just before dawn. But who would know the dawn was coming again? He'd heard some religion; Jainism, if he remembered correctly; professed that the earth was reborn every morning. Miroku sighed, the morning breeze rustling through his hair, fluttering his robes. Though he was a lifelong student of Zen-Buddhism, he couldn't help but think it a comforting concept. If the world was reborn each morning, it was a fresh slate, devoid of all impurities and evils.  
  
But it was not like that. Through the night, when he entrenched himself in the meditations of his monk training, he was a good servant of Buddha, a proper brother. But each morning, after breaking meditation at the dawn, he came to find himself again . . . lecher monk, cursed monk, monk of desires; the very thing that stunted his enlightenment.  
  
And of all the teachings he had heard the elders repeat again and again, of all his training to be the service of the Amida Buddha . . . where had it gotten him? In the company of a half-breed demon, a priestess from the future, a kitsune cub, and an attractive demon-slayer; an odd band, to say in the least. But they were a family; a family for those who had none. Only sometimes . . .  
  
Another long sigh. It was no use just now. He diverted his eyes and watched his comrades. Kagome, Inuyasha and Shippo were all snuggled in a bundle against a tree, Kagome's head on Inu's shoulder, his arm cradling her, and Shippo curled on his lap. It was very cute, to say in the least. Miroku could remember how the two of them were always bickering and arguing. But, like so many aspects to their relationship, it was not as it seemed.  
  
About a yard away, Sango was propped against a tree stump, her great Fire Cat cuddled into her chest.  
  
A small smile crept across his face. She was a very beautiful woman. A pure spirit; her cause was a noble one. True, vengefulness was desire, but for her, he hoped the Amida would make an exception, both for her Shinto beliefs and her vendetta. He knew the brothers condemned such beliefs, calling it heresy. But, then again, he disagreed with the brothers on many things.  
  
And what was his cause? he thought bitterly at himself, slowly standing up from the traditional cross-legged pose. Where was the honor in his cause? Trying to save himself for a sin committed over fifty years ago by a grandfather, to save his skin . . . didn't sound very honorable.  
  
He glanced at his hand, walking slowly away from his comrades, fiddling nervously with the rosary wrapped around the elbow-length glove. It was growing. Slowly, oh so slowly . . . but growing none the less. For twenty years it had grown. He could still remember the first time he'd seen it begin to open, when he was barely three. It was just the size of a pinhead then. His mother had clutched a cloth to it, running through the woods to his father's monastery, screaming a black kami had infected her son. It was only when his father revealed his own wind void that she believed the curse at last. That was over seventeen years ago. Now it was the size of a normal pebble. Someday, it would grow too large . . .  
  
"And that is the end of the ludicrous monk," he finished the thought himself, staring at his image, reflected in the nearby pond against the gray, cloudy sky. That face . . . so much like his father's. But his father had collapsed in on himself when he was thirteen. Down he had gone, into that black void, to where, he knew not . . .  
  
It was from that time things started to go downhill for Miroku. You don't see your own father disappear and remain unaffected.  
  
First had come his sexuality. Of course, at the time, the brothers did not think much of it. Brother or not, a young buck was a young buck. People didn't know it, but many orders did not condemn sexuality; in fact, several condoned it.  
  
But that wasn't it.  
  
Slowly, but surely, as he grew through the years, a certain quality had crept into his character. Something biting and cynical. True, he was one of the best students in the order, being swift and quick to learn. He prayed and studied every day without a fail.  
  
But there was a certain apathy that slowly crept into him. No longer did he study with the kind of boyish zeal he had when he was young. It was with an empty feeling, a feeling everything was simple or useless. Someday, just like his father, he would be sucked into the void, and there would be nothing left, not even a bone to remember him.  
  
Among the other young monks, behind their hands, he became "Miroku the Cursed." It was only a matter of time before they began to notice he never removed his glove. The story of a burn he'd used began to fail. Why wouldn't he let them see it? Someone connected it to the strange happening with his father. Then the story of the family curse began to recirculate. Even the elders began to trouble over it.  
  
About a year before he graduated, he'd begun to rebel. No one is called cursed and maintains for long. Though he would not pick physical fights, he distanced himself from the others. He found a room for himself and studied there, apart from the others.  
  
Once he graduated at seventeen and chose to serve afield, he couldn't help but wonder if they were glad to see him go.  
  
For more than two years afterward, he'd drifted along the roads, dulling the growing darkness out of mind through vices. He'd discovered wealth, sake, smoking herbs, and most of all, the touch of women. Ah, women, voluptuous curves so tempting, so delicious, no man could resist, let alone a cursed one . . . he doubted much he'd spread the word of Amida to many ears.  
  
Then one day, he had run into a little trouble. . .  
  
That was the beginning of the adventure. From that time before, he'd been a wandering semi-monk, living life how he chose, and then, one day, he found himself staring down an angry half-demon. After fighting beside him the first time, he'd strung along, as Shippo had done. And after risking his life against his brother Sesshomaru, the idea of him separating was quite unlikely.  
  
And so he became yet another member of this mismatched band. A half- breed demon, a futuristic priestess, an orphaned kitsune cub, and now a depraved monk. Further along the way, a beautiful demon-slayer joined the crew, and even later, her blazing pet. Their quest? To collect the shards of a Shikon Jewel. Why would anyone want such a jewel? Inuyasha wished to become full demon. Kagome was its heir. Shippo wanted it to save his people. Kikyo was its protectoress. Sango wanted to avenge her father's death. Sesshomaru wanted a ravenous wave of vengeance. Naraku . . . of that none knew. As for himself? All he wanted to do was cure the curse.  
  
All a farce, he thought, grimacing at his own reflection. The face, the title, the history, the purity, the voice . . . all lies. He grabbed a stone from the dust and pitched it into the false monk before him, making him shudder and ripple, becoming a million different refractions and slowly back to the one he saw every day.  
  
"Can someone say self-deprecation?"  
  
With a splash, he dropped the rest of his stones in shock. Miroku turned over his shoulder, terrified. Only one person possessed that voice . . . Sango was standing behind him, her arms crossed, lovely hair fluttering in the breeze.  
  
Miroku's jaw dropped open. He didn't know what to say. What could he say?  
  
"I . . ." he seemed to have trouble speaking, " . . . It's not. . .what I mean is . . ."  
  
"Don't worry about it," she insisted. "I shouldn't've snuck up on you."  
  
He heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, she would be kind and not ask. Sango sat lightly on the bank, patting the ground beside her, beckoning him to sit, which he obeyed.  
  
For a few minutes, they sat in silence, listening to the nostalgic predawn serenade, watching the tiny ripples as the pond awakened. Or at least he tried. But ever and again, his eyes found their way back to Sango, her curved body worthy of any sculptor, her face that of any painter. He sighed. She was such a beauty. Miroku wondered that she did not smile a bit more.  
  
"Winter will come early this year," she commented at last, examining a frosty reed.  
  
"So you sense it as well," he spoke.  
  
"Monks are not the only students of lore. My people have accurately predicted weather for centuries."  
  
"I believe it," he answered, sounding a bit defensive. "I was just impressed you realized it now." 'Liar' said a voice in his head.  
  
"Don't you ever just say what you mean?" she asked, blowing a late dandelion, the seeds fluttering picturesquely over the water.  
  
Miroku's eyes downcast from hers. "Unfortunately, no," he sighed dejectedly.  
  
And then, an amazing thing happened.  
  
One small, almost invisible tear rolled down the cheek of the ludicrous monk.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sango looked into his eyes, her black pupils lost in her eyes. "Please . . . just forget I said it." She started to take his hand, but he jerked it away.  
  
"Don't!" he screamed, clutching at the rosaries. "Do you realize what you could have done? Don't ever do that again!"  
  
Sango fell silent, her mouth slightly agape. Miroku watched as those camouflaged pupils went small in sudden shock. She looked away, embarrassed of her momentary admittance of fear. He felt a weight of guilt build inside of him. Without even trying, he had shamed her.  
  
"Forgive me, Sango-sama," he muttered under his breath, taking her hand with his other, non-fatal one. Ambidexterity had been crucial to learn in his youth; if not for his own safety, for everyone else's. "Please . . . I mean no disrespect."  
  
"No," she tugged her hand away. "Stop it. I'm fine. I'm an adult. Just stop!"  
  
Silence broke over them again. From somewhere, a crane called. He watched it rise, its great wings breaking forth from the reeds, wheeling gracefully skyward.  
  
"Crane . . . the treacherous," he grumbled, watching its path of flight  
  
Sango let out a small snigger.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"You, that's what!" she laughed, "'Crane, the treacherous' . . . don't you ever just lighten up?"  
  
"It seems I don't," he sighed miserably.  
  
Another laugh. "Don't you see? That's just another way of doing the same thing!"  
  
"My order has bidden me be truthful."  
  
"Yeah. And since when do you follow the order?"  
  
Miroku could feel a hot flame come over his face. This was going too far, even for him.  
  
"Since I changed, that's when!" he growled. "Since I've already made such a waste of everything anyway. Since it's all on me now. Since this road just goes to a dead end. Nothing's at the end of the road for me, Sango. One of these days, I'm gonna fall down into nothing, and they'll be nothing left to even prove I existed. Then I'll be born into yet another form, and I'll have never succeeded my quest. I'll have never cured the curse, never avenged my family, never spread the word of my brothers, and never told you I love you!"  
  
From the beginning of this passionate speech, more and more bewilderment had come over the countenance of the demon-slayer, but at this last bit of speech, her face went completely red. Miroku gasped, realizing what he had just said, what he'd been keeping within every day since he'd met Sango. And now, in a fit of rage and emotion, he'd finally revealed it. His mouth hung open. He was at a loss for words.  
  
"Sango . . . Sango-s-s-sama," he stuttered. "Sango, I-"  
  
His sentence was cut short. He suddenly found her mouth over his, entrenched in a kiss. For but a moment, he was surprised, but slowly it melted away under the warmth of her full, red mouth. Slowly, his mortal hand drifted towards her hair, brushing softly through the long silky, jet strands.  
  
Lost in the magic of the moment, Miroku suddenly realized that this, in truth, was a first kiss. For years before, he had romanced and lain with many women. But that was not love. That was cowardice, lust, and vice; reflections of a past time of fear and wantonness. But this, for the first time in his life, was something different. This was something so precious, so incredible, so dear that he would risk his life for even one moment, one second of this holiness. He'd lived twenty years in search of something great enough to die for, and here, here it had been in front of him all this time. What a fool he had been not to see from the beginning. But that was past now. For now, all they had was this moment, this second . . . this kiss.  
  
So it was true what the elders said. Holiness really does come from within.  
  
Sango pulled her mouth away at last, her hypnotizing eyes met with his. In those eyes, he saw that she, too, knew what he felt, and felt just the same; that she too understood that this was why life was worth living.  
  
Moving slowly and carefully, she took his rosary wrapped hand in her own. Trembling, he let her take it.  
  
He did not pull away. He would never pull away.  
  
THE END 


End file.
